


The Department Of Deductions

by johnathanwrites



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adopted Teddy Lupin, Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, Crossover, Fluff and Angst, HP: EWE, Jim Moriarty lives, John is a muggle, M/M, Multi, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Post-Hogwarts, Sherlock Is A Wizard, Teddy Lupin is trans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-03 08:50:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2845121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnathanwrites/pseuds/johnathanwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock Holmes is kidnapped two years after faking his death by Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter, they offer him a job in a new department of the DMLE- The Department of Deductions. Draco and Harry have grown to like and respect each other as Auror partners, and they live together with their two kids in their definitely platonic relationship. Death Eaters are breaking out of Azkaban left right and centre and crime is becoming more drastic once again. The best minds in Britain are recruited for the job, and Sherlock'd be lost without his blogger. Of course, when said blogger thinks you've been dead for two years, there may be just a few problems.</p><p> </p><p>  <b>~ on hiatus, but will be finished eventually... ~</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My first fan fiction... :o

Sherlock Holmes had avoided using Magic since 1999. Once his NEWTs had been acquired, he vanished from the Wizarding World almost completely. _Almost._ With a family of purebloods and three siblings who were rather prominent in the community, he could not be completely removed from it. Even over the past two years, whilst he’d travelled the world on his own, trying to bring down Moriarty, he’d avoided using much magic because he knew his magical signature could be picked up.

However, when he was kidnapped from a hotel, having just come back, not yet having revealed to John that he was still alive, he vaguely remembered just _why_ he had left in the first place. Pansy, his half sister, was interfering again.

Whilst Mummy had been pregnant with him, his father had abandoned ship, and another woman gave birth to a baby girl only months after Sherlock was born. Divorce ensued, and Sherlock rarely saw his half sister, Pansy Parkinson. Whilst Pansy went to that _dreadfully_ common school, Sherlock was tutored at home by his mother, as well as attending Professor Castle’s Traditional Training For Young Wizards three times a week with multiple other young Pureblood children. After all, Mycroft was seven years older and his education was done just as Sherlock’s main education began. Sherrinford was even older than that, so he was more irrelevant. Well, at least he assumed it was Pansy interfering again when he found himself strung up against a stone wall, face being stitched back together by strong magic. After all, anyone else wouldn’t go through the trouble of patching him back together- anyone who wanted him dead would allow him to suffer the pain. It wasn’t her magical signature, it was her John- Draco Malfoy- doing it, and that linked the Magic straight to Pansy. He thought they might have married by now- the Malfoy’s were very respectable, even after the war, the son that was their age had taken the Family Head and had sorted out their reputation- but there was no Bond Mark on his signature, not even the twining of magics that so commonly happened when two were intimately involved.

“Ah, you’re awake, then?” That wasn’t Malfoy. Even after ten years, his voice wouldn’t have changed that much. Sherlock knew Malfoy’s voice well, just like he knew his magical signature. Their signatures had been woven together before, after all.

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open, taking in his surroundings. It was dimly lit, and just as he had suspected, the walls were stone, as were the floorings. So common. His eyes trailed over to the man the voice was coming from, after checking the room for immediate dangers. Ahh. Harry Potter. He should have recognised that voice. Now, what did Harry Potter want to do with _him?_

“Speak up, William.” Now _that_ , that was Malfoy. William Holmes hardly had the same ring to it- William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Sherlock hadn’t used his forename for years- well, since that day back in his University years when he’d deleted Astronomy. Before then, only his family had called him Sherlock, and after that day, no one had called him William again.

Now, here Malfoy was, healing the huge gash on the side of his face. What was going on? Had he finally come to rub it in his face? Quite literally, there, he supposed. But that couldn't be right. Why would he come after all these years?

“It’s Sherlock.” He croaked, voice cracking slightly from dehydration; his throat and tongue felt like they were covered in sand.

With a quick cast of a wand, a glass was supplied and a stream of water filled it. Potter went to pass it to him, but then seemingly remembered that Sherlock was tied to the wall. “He’s not dangerous, right?”

“If you mean, will he kick your ass, I doubt it.” Malfoy remarked, breaking the bonds of the metal with a flick of his wrist, leaving Sherlock to rub his red wrists.

Potter passed him the glass, leaving Sherlock for several long moments to take sips of the cool contents. “After all, we’re allies. Right, Will?”

“What does Pansy want now?” Sherlock asked, voice quiet but deep and honey-like, as usual, the chords in his throat restored by the cool liquid.

“Pansy?” Potter repeated, eyebrows creasing together to knit, lines sinking to his forehead in confusion, his old scar not very noticeable anymore.

“Parkinson.” He confirmed for the man who seemed to be his friend. But then, why would they be working together? One quick glance at their scarlet robes told him they were part of the DMLE, and from the stitching on the outer cloak, the Auror Department. Clearly they were partners.

“No, Pansy has nothing to do with this, Will.”

“Sherlock.” He corrected instantly.

“Fine, Sherlock.” Malfoy said, rolling his eyes, obviously in mocking torment. “Although she did tell me to ask you if you were going home for Christmas, and whether you’d be bringing a plus one.”

 _Plus one._ Sherlock hadn’t brought a plus one along to any Christmas events since Malfoy, and he was fairly certain that the blonde man knew that. Maybe he could bring John along, just to spite him. John wouldn’t mind. Probably. After getting over the fact that Sherlock had supposedly been dead for the last two years. John had shot a man for him when they’d known each other for less than twenty four hours- surely, he wouldn’t mind coming to the Holmes family estate to watch Sherlock’s dysfunctional family scream at each other. There was free food, after all.

Then again, with Sherlock’s family all there, he wasn’t so sure if he wanted John there, at all. Ever. He didn't want _anyone_ there. Maybe he should just not go all together. That way he’d successfully avoid Mummy, Mycroft, Father and Pansy all in one, as well as all of his other annoying relatives. At least Sherrinford never turned up for these ridiculous events. Plus, John was a muggle. A muggle would hardly be welcomed when everyone there had their wands out.

Yeah, scrap that idea. Sherlock wouldn’t go on his own, and he didn’t have anyone he could bring. Well, he supposed he could drag along Molly Hooper. His family would approve of her- she might not be a pureblood, but she was only a couple of years younger than him, a half-blood who had a fair muggle profession, educated through Hogwarts and then some Muggle University that he hadn't thought relevant enough to catch. Most importantly, if someone accio’ed a bottle of wine, she wouldn’t bat an eyelash. Plus, she owed him a favour.

No, scrap that idea, too. She’d do as he wanted, anyway, she was clearly infatuated, and besides, Sherlock would really rather not go, anyway. He’d spend Christmas alone, or possibly with John, if he wasn’t visiting that sister of his. Harriet was his only family, and they didn’t get along, so he doubted they’d spend Christmas together- they hadn't before Sherlock had left, but Sherlock could no longer be sure of John’s holiday time habits. The only reason he would go was if he wanted to recharge his magical core. He rarely ever used his magic, and if he wanted to, he could just ask Mycroft, who would supply him with the means for some event where he could do so alone, stay for half an hour, and then leave again. Convenient. Wizards were just so lazy. The whole magic thing made their brains rot; they never had to thinnk. Sherlock couldn't stand it. 

Sherlock took another long sip of the water before placing the water down on a small table that sat next to him, before standing up, his limbs unravelling from their crooked position that they seemed to have been in for quite some time. They felt awful, graceless, like his transportation had been asleep for a while. “I doubt I will be attending the festivities.”

Potter sighed, fingers brushing across his knuckles. He was nervous, that much Sherlock could see. “Look, we should really take him back to-“

“Shut up, Potter.” Malfoy huffed, crossing his arms across his chest. “We’re not taking him to a Ministry Holding Cell. I told you. He’s not one of your beloved criminals.”

Potter seemed to shrink back at that. Sherlock wondered if Harry Potter, Saviour Of The Wizarding World was always so meek, and the only thing his brain would answer with was the obvious answer- but why was he acting this way in front of Malfoy? That was the question. Why would one of the most powerful wizards in the world give in so easily? Why did he respect Malfoy, when Malfoy clearly did not respect him?

“We have an offer for you. The Ministry has been having more and more calls of Obliviators being send out to tend to the Muggle Aurors in London. Wizarding crime rates are higher than ever, and the crimes are getting more and more noticeable.” Malfoy drawled.

“They’re called Police. The Metropolitan, if you’re talking about London.” Potter corrected softly.

“Yes, yes, the Police. Now, the Head Auror, Gawain Robards, has told us to recruit wizards for a new department. We’ve got the best minds and the most powerful wizards in the Wizarding World working with this, even the recluses that have settled amongst muggles, like yourself.” Malfoy continued.

Sherlock considered the pointed man and his partner, pausing. “So, now you’re offering me a job.”

“You were the first person on our list.” Potter admitted sheepishly. “So far, we’ve recruited quite a few, including Hermione Granger, Irene Adler, Severus Snape and Luna Lovegood. You were a bit harder to track down.”

Severus Snape was supposedly dead, and had been since 1998. Sherlock had always had his suspicions that the old dungeon bat had never actually died- a man as intelligent as him would never go into Voldemort’s lair without an antidote for the snake’s venom.

Malfoy approached Sherlock carefully, as if he might bite. “Thirty five hours a week, minimum. Very good pay, hours at flexible times, you could work from home or do field work. Lots of people running around after you, willing to do whatever you say. The most complex and interesting cases in the Wizarding World, an international department. Lots of travelling, as well, if you’d like that.”

Considering this, Sherlock’s finger tips tapped along each other, as though in prayer, as usual, then slipped down purposefully to link his fingers together in a hand cradle. "No, no more travelling." “Naturally, you were the first person I thought of.” Potter pipped in. “I didn’t get to work with you before you left our world, but I’ve heard so much about you from Hermione, Luna and Malfoy.”

After the Battle Of Hogwarts, all young people in the country had been offered to return to Hogwarts. Professor Castle’s Traditional Training For Young Wizards had been shut down temporarily because of the building having taken extreme damage, and new teachers being recruited, but Sherlock just wanted his NEWTs so that he could leave. Attending Hogwarts for his last year had been irritating, but provided a lot of connections, such as Molly Hooper. That year had been the only time he’d ever attended a study group, a small collection of higher year students who would meet in the Hogs Head on a Saturday afternoon. Being in the same year as the Great Saviour was an annoyance, but he’d dealt with it.

“So, are you up for the job, or not?” Malfoy purred.

Sherlock took this to be a one-off sort of offer. Quick consideration was key. Mentally, he cleared a space and made a list. Firstly, he’d never had a job in all of his life. He’d gone from Childhood, to NEWTs, to University, to Cocaine, to the Met, to the Fall. The six key stages he’d sliced his life into. In not one of these chunks had he ever had a job, although his handiwork with the Met came close. Perhaps Mycroft had been right- maybe a real job could relieve his struggle with drugs, although Sherlock would never admit to thinking Mycroft could possibly be right.

“Can I bring in my own people?” Sherlock asked, cautiously. Potter inclined his head in a nod.

“What about… Muggles?”

Potter looked alarmed, shooting a glance towards his partner.

Malfoy shrugged.

Potter kept looking towards Malfoy for the authority, even though Potter was no doubt much more powerful. Maybe Malfoy had a higher position, although that was unlikely; a former death eater versus the Saviour of the Wizarding World? No. Perhaps Potter was scared of Malfoy, but he didn't seem to be afraid. Maybe Potter knew Malfoy had a higher intellect. Questionable.

“Right, I’ll take that as a yes. They’re necessary, I won’t do it unless I can make my own team.” Sherlock insisted. John Watson was the most important person in the world, it didn't matter that he was a muggle. The past two years had proved that to Sherlock. Without his only friend there next to him, he was bored no matter _how_ interesting _anything_ was. It was all useless and painful.

Well, there was the small matter of John Watson thinking one Sherlock Holmes had committed suicide. He’d get over it, then they could go back to fighting crime. He might be at a disadvantage, being a muggle, but he’d be fine. But then… What if John was better off without him? What if he was finally happy, finally out of danger without Sherlock there to drag him into it?

The two were staring at him expectantly.

Sherlock pursed his lips, eyes examining them both one final time before bowing his head slightly. “Yes, very well. I’ll do it.” He agreed. This could score high on his interest chart, and if it didn’t, he could quit. Or just stop turning up. Right? He doubted Lestrade would give him cases upon his return. Mycroft would probably forbid it. Sherlock would need something to kick his brain back into gear, and he'd need something to do other than stares at John all day.

“Gather your people, whoever you chose, as many as you want. Our first meeting will be next Monday at eight am sharp. Meet us here. Potter’ll escort you out. See you later, William.” Malfoy drawled.

“Sherlock.” He corrected again, eyes narrowing slightly in irritation. Draco always did get under his skin. “I’ll see you then.”

 

...~...

 

Sherlock had only met Potter briefly before, but now they would be working together, by the looks of it. As the shorter man lead the genius through a series of corridors and down a few flights of stairs, Sherlock’s eyes raked over him. One hand skimmed along the bannister of the stairs, the sleeves on his robes shoved up around his elbows. He was covered in small scratches, nothing deep, so he could be helping out with Auror training, but the fact that he kept moving his wrists indicated that he did a lot of writing, most likely filling in a lot of forms for the Auror Department- as Harry Potter, he was most likely just a spokes person, not actually a real Auror. Adding to that, the little patches of black dog fur that contaminated his shirt underneath his robe clued Sherlock into the fact that he had at least one large dog.

Over the past few years, his skills had become a little rusty from lack of brain work, so reading whoever he could was an advantage, helping him to become on top of the game again.

The house they were in was old, very old, probably an ancestral location. It looked as though it was in the beginnings of refurbishment, although the owner hadn’t gotten very far.

“Mudbloods and traitors, all of them! Get out of my house, filthy half-blood!” A voice screamed. Ah, portraits.

“No one cares, Walburga!” Potter yelled back.

The portrait, Walburga, considered for several moments. “Is that the Parkinson lad?”

Sherlock glanced over to the portrait, raising a brow. “Holmes, now, but yes. Madame Black, I presume. I’ve heard so much about you. I look forward to speaking with you.”

The woman in the portrait blushed and beamed down at him. “I always did like your family.”

“Dreadful paintings, nasty things.” Sherlock murmured under his breath.

Upon reaching the bottom floor hallway, Potter pulled out a slip of parchment, holding it out for Sherlock. “Make sure whoever you want on our team reads this. Don’t let anyone else see.”

Sherlock glanced down to the scrap, taking it, eyes skimming over the black inked words. 12 Grimmauld Place. “That’s where we are, yes?”

Potter nodded. “Yes. This’ll be where we work from, mainly. If you ever need somewhere to stay or hide out, here’s the place for it. Whole building’s being refurbished and cleaned out, so we’re temporarily located in the Ministry, and that’s where we’re located officially. Kingsley said not to worry about that, though. Draco says the Ministry’s a bore, and everyone looks at him funny, you know, having been a death eater and all. Doesn’t matter much, but it’s irritating, even for him, even if he doesn't admit it, so we decided to set up shop here. I’m Harry Potter and that was Draco Malfoy, but from the way he spoke to you, he knows you well, and most people know who I am, so…”

“Yes, yes. You know who I am, obviously.” Potter nodded, although it hadn't been a question, pressing the parchment into Sherlock’s hand.

“Bring along whoever you want, but… Just make sure you trust them. We hardly want to obliviate more people, especially not muggles. How ever many you want. Of course, they don’t need to work for us full time, just bits and pieces here and there, help out with the squad. I assume you’ll know people, people who’ll work with you. Draco says that people have a hard time adjusting to you, so we figured it’s best to just let you bring along who you’d like. He said you’d probably do that anyway, whether we said you could or not.”

Sherlock noticed that Potter spoke about Malfoy a lot, that he deflected from his own opinion and used his partner’s. What did that say about them? What did that say about Potter? He obviously valued Malfoy’s opinion, possibly more than his own. A safety blanket, perhaps.

Potter moved towards the door, clicking open the latch manually instead of with his wand. “Monday, then.”

Sherlock inclined his head. “Monday. Goodbye, Mr. Potter.”

“Oh please, it’s Harry. Don’t worry about all that proper nonsense.” Potter protested.

Sherlock chuckled lowly. “I never do.” He said before slipping out of the door, flicking his fingers out to indicate to the nearest taxi, climbing into it with his usual grace. “221b Baker Street.” Sherlock declared.


	2. Chapter 2

221b Baker Street looked much the same from the outside. Speedy’s had obviously undergone renovations and the old red hangings were clean and vibrant; much newer. Glancing at the windows, the curtains had been replaced with blackout blinds that were currently drawn. The brickwork had been cleaned, although not very recently, and the door had been repainted at some point, although it was just another coat of black. Sherlock noticed after a few moments that a gentle layer of white had been falling for some time now, and was resting on the windowsills and the pavement.

Not paying attention to the fact that he was attempting to build up his courage, which he would never admit- after all, why would he need courage for something as petty as sentiment?- Sherlock drifted slowly towards the front door. There was no rush. It had been two years. He could bear the few extra minutes it took for himself to gather his thoughts. He didn't feel nervous, of course not. It didn't matter that John could have become married, had a child and moved out of 221b in the time Sherlock had been gone. He’d be there, ready for him. Yes.

Deep breath in, deep breath out.

Sherlock knocked on the door. It didn’t take long for someone to answer. Drawing his breath in, the door opened.

Mrs Hudson, of course. Sherlock wasn’t disappointed, Mrs Hudson was like a second mother to him, and he’d often fleetingly thought that perhaps if she’d raised him rather than his own mother, he wouldn’t be so strange, that he wouldn’t be so cold. Mummy was amazing in her own way, but it would have probably been better if she’d taken over motherly duties once Sherlock had finished puberty- she didn’t like children, but once her three sons had reached maturity, she had been wonderful. No, Mrs Hudson was warm and friendly, unlike his mother had been.

Considering the World’s Only Consulting Detective had supposedly been dead for two years, it was surprising when she didn’t bat an eyelash at his return, instead, she hushed the words he was beginning to form as she shuffled and motioned for him to come in.

~…~

Sherlock had been in England for three weeks to the day, spending the whole time up until now in some private facility that Mycroft had offered a large donation to. First he’d been in a hospital like room, where they ran all sorts of tests while he was hooked up to drips as they tried to push him back to health. The next week he’d been moved to a space that was more of a bedroom. He was given free access to books, the internet and a range of foods. They’d told him that he needed to sleep between seven and ten hours a night. They scrubbed his skin, cut his hair, buffed and filed his nails, cleaned his ears, conditioned his hair, moisturised his limbs. They told him to go online and order whatever clothing he wanted. Sherlock let them- he did as he was told. He was numb, going through the motions without protest, not thinking nor feeling.

Eventually, Mycroft visited.

Sherlock had been sitting on his bed, legs crossed, fingers resting as if in prayer, head bowed, eyes closed, although he didn’t show any of his usual habits that would lead Mycroft to believe his youngest brother was in his mind palace.

“Are you- are you meditating?” Mycroft had stuttered, for the first time in years. He’d had a stutter when he was young, and Sherlock had always teased him mercilessly about it.

Sherlock took several moments to respond, finally looking up after several long breaths. “Perhaps.” He said, voice soft, not cutting, for once.

Mycroft had then taken solace in the uncomfortable armchair that sat in-between the bookshelf and the window that stared out into the autumn garden. The room was red, a colour which suited neither brother, although it seemed to fit Mycroft more than Sherlock. Mycroft could handle warmer colours, although just like Sherlock’s persona, Sherlock’s taste in colour was also as cold as the winter that was quickly approaching.

He disliked the room, but he said nothing.

The books were useless; he’d already read almost all of them before, and the few that he hadn’t already read, he hadn’t ever read for a reason.

The garden was beautiful, but Sherlock didn’t care for it. He didn't care for beauty without his conductor, without his magnifying glass, because without him, it was pointless.

The armchair was too stuffed and he found it impossible to find a comfortable position whilst perched on it, all he could do was constantly shift and fidget.

The mirror was the worst thing- he’d never kept a mirror in his bedroom in Baker Street for a reason. The only time he’d ever really looked in the mirror was in the morning to brush his teeth and shave the sparse hair that rooted from his face. Sherlock had been deducing people, situations, objects, since before he started talking. It was safe to say that now, at the age of thirty four, he was rather good at it. It was an automatic response, something he couldn't help, something he couldn't turn off with a flick of a switch or the snap of his fingers.

Every time he looked in that mirror, he would see himself for what he was. The thoughts and strings of information that were quickly pulled from the image of his being were something he did not like. The strands tangled together, creating words and emotions that rumbled far too deeply within him for comfort, resulting in his numb state, this empty feeling that contaminated his being and presence like a vicious disease that would eat him from the inside out, slowly consuming each part of him that meant anything at all. As he tried to understand himself, as he tried to find meaning, the meaning was destroyed. Each singular event in his life lead up to this, but it was all for nothing, all for nought. The strings were like veins, attempting to create this miserable excuse for a human, each connection bitter and trembling like his hands did when he was on the verge of overdose, fingers tracing the scarring that tainted his pale flesh that stretched too tightly over his bones, no muscle to show, just empty flesh, just like his mind that was completely overflowing yet somehow completely deserted.

Avoid the bookcase, avoid the mirror, avoid the window, avoid the chair. That left one thing. The bed was the only object he appreciated in the room- it was the most comfortable thing he had taken sanctuary in since he left Baker Street.

By Mycroft’s feet was a box made of wooden slats. Sherlock could guess what it contained- the Belstaff, his dressing gown, perhaps his violin, his phone, his laptop. If Mycroft was being kind, it might even contain a box of cigarettes and a lighter, or if he was trying to be a good brother, perhaps just a box of nicotine patches. Mycroft did not offer the box. Sherlock did not get up and take it.

They sat in untenanted silence for period of time that was uncounted by both of them. After a long while, Mycroft finally broke the noiseless vacancy. “You’ll want to go back to Baker Street soon.” He said. It was a statement, not a question, not a _guess._

“Yes.” Sherlock agreed, although it wasn’t necessary- they both knew it was the truth before either of them had spoken.

Mycroft let the atmosphere drift back to its vacancy, although it wasn’t really vacant. Although there was no speech, there was a wordless communication that both of them had mastered a long time ago.

“I wish you luck, Sherlock. I know you pretend you don’t care, but we both know that isn’t true. Whatever you do about this-“ He searched for a few moments for the word he wanted. “Situation,” he continued, pausing once more, before going on once more. “Know that both I and Mummy approve.”

They both knew what Mycroft was blindly referencing to, although neither of them would say the words out loud.

After another long stretch of silence, Mycroft got up and left.

As soon as he was gone, Sherlock dumped the contents of the crate out onto his bed, examining them. He’d been right, except the laptop was new, not his own, as was the phone. Sherlock’s mind raced for a few short moments, weighing up the possibilities. The most likely was that John had smashed them. That made the most sense, really. That was what sad people did- they got angry, just to feel something. Sherlock had several private experiences of that, locked up away for no one to see.

Three days later as he was leaving, someone had kicked out the backs of his knees, forcing him to the floor before shoving cloth into his mouth, dabbed with chemicals. Feeling the magical traces, Sherlock was annoyed. They were wizards, after all, couldn’t they be more civilised about this whole deal? The next time he woke up, he was being propositioned by the Boy Who Lived Multiple Times and Sherlock’s very own first and only ex-boyfriend.

~…~

Mrs Hudson hurried him into her kitchen and poured him a cup of tea, shoving him down into a chair, telling him to drink up.

Sherlock obeyed, listening to his instructions, just like he had since returning to England, sipping at his tea politely. He said nothing as she bustled around the kitchen.

“It was so difficult not telling John.” She muttered, almost as if to herself.

“You knew?” Sherlock asked after a few moments of thought, although it was now clear that much was obvious, even without her words.

Mrs Hudson nodded, humming to herself as she finally sat down, pouring herself a cup as well. “Your brother, the dear, wanted someone to watch over John that actually knew him. Your police friend- Gregory, and I have been checking on him. He’s a nice boy, that Gregory. He doesn’t know about you, though. Your brother thought I might pick up on the fact that your signature hadn’t faded. Anyway, we made sure John hasn’t been alone. Even those other police friends of yours see him often. Philip and Sally, I think their names are. Oh, and that Molly. She’s such a sweetheart. Mycroft even pops round once a week on a Thursday.”

Sherlock looked at Mrs Hudson in surprise- that was one thing he would have never deduced. Mrs Hudson knew?

“Don’t be so shocked, dear. I might be a squib, but I know these things.”

So she was a squib. Sherlock decided that made an odd kind of sense. He finished his tea and stood up again. “Is he in?”

“What? Oh, John? Yes, love. Came back about half an hour ago.”

Sherlock wondered about where it was he had come back from, but didn’t ask. “I’ll be back soon, Mrs Hudson.” He said with the briefest of smiles, taking her hand and pressing his lips lightly against her wrinkled and age-stained knuckle, before exiting the flat, quickly gathering himself once more to make his way up the stairs.

~…~

Draco Malfoy let himself in, closing the door behind him. He hung his coat up on the rack that stood in the hallway, glanced in the mirror and unravelled his muggle tie, pulling it off and shoved it in his pocket. He smiled at himself and walked into the front room of Grimmauld Place where Harry sat, a laptop perched on the arm of the sofa.

The blonde man walked in, a smile quirking his lips. He sat down next to his partner, who had his phone on his lap. He was watching back a video that Teddi had sent him from Hogwarts.

Even after Teddi had come out as transgender, she had kept the same name, only changing the last letter, only changing her pronouns, and of course, her looks. Being raised with Harry as her father figure, she usually didn’t use her metamorphagus powers to change her appearance often. She had settled with long, messy, black hair and green eyes, just like Harry’s own appearance, and a slender frame. Draco got along well with his cousin very well, and had actually been one of the first people she had confided in about her gender.

Occasionally, if she was going somewhere with Draco, she'd change her appearance to resemble him. That stopped questions, especially the ones that they would receive in muggle areas. It made Draco's chest swell when he saw her with straight platinum blonde hair, clear skin and silver eyes.

Harry looked over at Draco, pulling his earphones out. “Teddi says hi and wants to know if you’ll take her to Diagon Alley on Saturday.”

Draco chuckled softly and shifted in the seat, getting comfortable. “Of course. Make sure she’s got permission from her Head of House this time.”

Once Teddi had gotten her apparition license a month ago, she kept sneaking off of the school grounds to Apparate to Malfoy Manor after school. Draco almost forbid her from doing it, but she melted his heart every time. She was a real Slytherin, and Draco loved her like the daughter he never had. He’d come into her life when she was six years old, a few months after Harry and Draco had first met since they had left Hogwarts. Within a month, they had both requested to move Auror partners so that they could be a team together. It’d been ten years and they had slipped into an easy sort of friendship, almost couple like. They were the perfect pair, even though they constantly argued and squabbled, they seemed to bring a sort of calm to each other, stabilising the depressive moods that Harry often fell into and the bouts of cold anger and hatred that Draco directed at himself.

Draco’s own son was turning five in a couple of weeks, but he was at home with Narcissa. He’d been the product of a short-lived arranged marriage which had the aim of just that- producing an heir to the Malfoy name. Nevertheless, Scorpius and Teddi held Draco’s heart dearly and he loved them more than anything. He knew that his friendship with Harry and his connection with Teddi had lead to the joining of all of their families. He was excited for the Christmas Gathering that would occur next month, where the Weasley clan and all of their friends would all stay at Malfoy Manor.

Draco leaned over, resting his head on top of Harry’s to look down at the screen.

Teddi’s smiling face shone up at him.

“So, our new department opens on Monday.” Harry said softly.

“Are you excited?” Draco asked. Personally, he was concerned about the animosity that remained between Sherlock and himself, and the fact that everyone was oblivious to their history except the very two who were involved.

Harry’s fingers were at his forearm, rubbing it in an absent minded fashion, habit. “I suppose so. Loads of running about, which’ll be nice. I hate that we’ve been stuck on paperwork for the last few months.”

Draco’s lip tilted upwards slightly. We. That was what they were now, really. It didn’t matter that Harry himself was straight, he still thought of them as a pair, a couple, a team, whether inside or outside of their work at the Auror Department. Sure, they might not wake up next to each other every day (although it had happened occasionally) and they might not think of each other as lovers, but that truth only went so far. They did not love and worship the other’s body, they did not have a physical relationship beyond a kiss on the temple or an embrace at the end of the day, but they had a mental connection. They loved each other’s inside deeply, like they needed each other to breath, to balance each other out, two halves of a whole.

Over the past few years, Draco was slowly getting better, yet despite his best efforts, Harry- not so much. He clung to Draco, as if the slightly older man was necessary for his survival. At this point, he probably was.

They lived together, worked together, went out together.

So why did it feel like something was missing?

~…~

John spent his days wandering the city.

7:00 AM- Wake up, get ready, play with the cat.

8:00 AM- Leave flat, drink tea with Mrs Hudson.

9:00 AM- Leave 221, walk to bus stop, wait for bus.

9:17 AM- Catch bus, take root to cemetery.

10:30 AM- Get off bus, walk to church yard.

11:00 AM- Visit Sherlock.

13:00 PM- Leave church yard, take bus to 221.

14:00 PM- Purchase lunch from Speedy’s.

14:10 PM- Eat lunch in 221b.

14:30 PM- Take nap, or play with the cat.

16:00 PM- Take Mrs Hudson grocery shopping.

18:00 PM- Arrive back at 221a, help Mrs Hudson cook dinner.

19:00 PM- Eat dinner with Mrs Hudson.

20:00 PM- Go back to 221b, tidy rooms, put away shopping.

20:30 PM- Write for the blog.

21:30 PM- Play with the cat.

22:00 PM- Take bath.

22:30 PM- Get out of bath, prepare for bed.

23:00 PM- Go to bed.

This was John’s daily schedule.

He no longer worked, and had lost every job he had applied for within the first three months of working there. He seemed to be receiving “donations” from Mycroft, but neither man ever brought it up when Mycroft visited once a week on a Thursday afternoon, replacing his nap time.

On a Friday night, instead of taking Mrs Hudson shopping and eating dinner with her, he’d meet Greg Lestrade down at the Hound And The Fox Public House to have a few drinks. Sometimes Anderson came along and he occasionally dragged Sally Donovan with him. He’d changed his tune about Sherlock after his death; he respected Sherlock. The three got along well enough.

On a Sunday Morning, he’d catch the tube from the Baker Street Station. First, the Hammersmith & City Line, then the Central Line, then the District Line. It look him 58 minutes to arrive at Upminster Underground Station. Considering he caught the train at 7:20, he arrived at Harry’s house after an hour and ten minutes. Every other week, his parents would also visit. Harry and John would cook Sunday lunch together and spend the day watching rubbish telly or reading new books. John often brought his cat with him. Harry was sober now, and she was finally talking to Clara again- they weren’t back together yet, but they were getting there. Harry didn’t really need him any more, and John felt like he was weighing down on her happiness.

Now and then, John would except the multiple invitations he got from “The Empty Hearse” which was a fan club, founded by Philip Anderson. Usually they discussed theories about how they believed Sherlock to still be alive, which John thought was a load of old bollocks. They’d ask him to recount stories about Sherlock, which he sometimes did. Other times, they’d all just talk and he’d sit in silence and listen.

Every few weeks, Molly would come to 221b for a few hours when she had the day off to drink tea and talk about things. She was a nice girl, one that John would have probably have tried to chat up at one point, if it wasn’t obvious that they had been in love with the same person before.

Sometimes Mrs Hudson would persuade John to come to church with her, and John met a few nice young women, that just like with Molly, he probably would have tried to flirt with before Sherlock.

That was how John saw his life now- at one point, it had been Before Afghanistan and After Afghanistan. Now it was Before Sherlock and After Sherlock. Before Sherlock and After Sherlock were both rather similar- empty, mindless, dreary.

The only time that ever had any real meaning was During Sherlock. Those short few months, that small capsule of time was everything, everything that meant anything. His life had suddenly been filled with excitement and brightness and adrenaline, rushed breaths, a forgotten cane, late nights and Scotland Yard. It was all gone again, the life he had built with his genius shattered, the remains of it like broken glass, piercing his skin, piercing his mind, fragile yet painful. Sherlock marked every aspect of his life, changed everything about the man he once was.

He’d gotten to 11:00 AM on his daily schedule.

Snow drifted aimlessly down, not heavy, although the grass of the graveyard had been covered in a blanket, pulled over the bodies like they were only sleeping, resting in their beds. John wished that was the case. He made his way along the stone path, the unique drops of precipitation filling the air, sticking to his eye lashes.

John Watson did not feel the cold- it did not make a difference to him; he already felt cold and numb inside. Physical sensation did not matter, he no longer experienced it.

His insides felt like a barren landscape, like a graveyard, his personality, memories, emotions all buried like the bodies six feet under the dying grass. Thoughts of Sherlock, Greg, Phil, Molly, Mrs Hudson, Harry, his parents, Mycroft, his cat- which he’d named Shirley, after the Consulting Detective, of course- hung like corpses from the leafless trees that littered the grounds.

Of course, the most prominent thought was Sherlock.

The grave was simple, black with gold writing. John had never left anything, not flowers, not letters, not anything.

Today was different. One red rose and a packet of cigarettes were pulled from his jacket pocket. He laid them carefully at head of the grave, just under the stone.

He didn’t say anything. Everything he had to say, he’d said already.

Today was the last time John would visit, he’d decided. It’d been exactly two years to the day, and he wasn’t moving on. Now, he had the chance to try. He’d given up hoping and praying that Sherlock would come back. He wouldn’t.

The only time he saw Sherlock was in his hallucinations, which happened regularly, but weren’t real. He took self-assigned medication for that, along with anti-depressants, sleeping pills and a variety of other meds.

Mrs Hudson had told him that it was normal to feel like this, referencing the death of her husband and the fact that she still missed him sometimes, even after he’d done all of those terrible things.

John had half heartedly insisted that they hadn't been a couple.

“Don’t be ridiculous dear. You might have not have expressed it, but everyone knows how much you love each other. You don’t have to pretend with me, John.” She’d said with that knowing smile of hers.

He leaned heavily on his walking cane, feeling the pain in his leg as he rested, staring at the words “Sherlock Holmes”.

The bite of the cold had already chapped his lips and cracked the skin on his fingers, and now it was cracking him right down to his soul.

Being a Friday, he wondered if it was Mrs Hudson or Greg that would find him later. He couldn’t be sure which, but it’d be alright. They’d understand.

As the wind picked up, John found himself kneeling at Sherlock’s grave, tears spilling down his cheeks, the underneaths of his nails caked in mud from clawing at the yellowing grass. He had no recollection of how he got to this position, to how he came to be desperately sobbing and crying and begging wordlessly for it to end.

“It’s useless, John. Come, join me, my love.”

The words echoed through John’s mind. He was aware that this wasn’t real, that the Sherlock who now stood behind his own head stone was just a figment of his imagination.

He looked glorious as he always did in John’s head- the pale skin that stretched on forever, his brunette curls swaying in the wind, eyes like the universe, piercing into his very soul, suit fitted well to show of the contours of his magnificent body.

When Sherlock had jumped of the roof of Bart’s, two people died that day. All John would be doing was finally giving peace to his body that went around, going through the notions on autopilot now that it’s controls had been burned out and sterilised.

“I will, Sherlock. I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

John cleaned the gun with a sort of finality to it. He’d already cleaned 221b as best as he could. He didn’t want to put Mrs. Hudson through any more trouble, she’d have to find a new tenant as it was. Or maybe she wouldn’t. John was almost certain that Mycroft would continue to pay his rent money to Mrs. Hudson even if the both of the tenants left. Either way, John had cleaned the flat from top to bottom over the course of the last week. Mrs Hudson was very impressed. If only she knew why he was going through all this trouble...

So here he was, sat in Sherlock’s chair, with a gun that had been fired to protect Sherlock, draining the tea from Sherlock’s usual mug before placing that on the coffee table, no Sherlock to walk over it. Raising the gun, John briefly remembered the last few days as he’d thought about the best way to do it. He was a man who liked to have as many options as possible. He’d debated overdosing on the drugs he’d found throughout the flat, or the sleeping pills that had been prescribed to him that he’d stockpiled, or even drowning himself. He didn't, because he knew he’d back out at the last minute. He needed this, but recently he’d been too much of a coward to do anything. A gun shot to the head could not be backed out of. The only question was where he’d do it. He’d thought about the shower, least messy. But then, he’d never been with Sherlock there, except in his fantasies, or whenever Sherlock decided that personal boundaries didn’t matter and walked in on him whilst he was showering to ask about blood clotting or something equally ridiculous. Decided, John parted his lips, nudging the barrel inside, breathing deeply through his nose as he let his mind drift to Sherlock. All he had to do was pull the trigger, and he’d never have to worry about anything again.

~…~

Draco probably should have taken into account that they’d probably be swarmed when he agreed to take Teddi to Diagon Alley. Last night, Draco and Harry had an interview with Rita Skeeter, and of course, it had been printed this morning. Clasping Teddi’s hand tightly, Draco weaved through the crowd, pulling his favourite young woman along behind him. Not that she wouldn't have been able to make her own way. Just because she was a girl, that didn’t mean she had a problem with yelling and threatening others who decided it was a good idea to get in her way. It was never a good idea to get in her way.

They were meeting Pansy in half an hour at Fortescue’s for ice cream before they went shopping, but Teddi wanted to stop by at one of the little bookstores which sold trashy magazines to teenage girls and middle-age women. When Draco was a teenager - well, a young teenager, before Voldemort took over his life - he’d read Witch Weekly every Saturday afternoon whilst he lounged around in bed with Pansy. They’d sit there and gossip, or complain or argue, usually over the content of the magazines, like whether Gilderoy Lockhart had deserved that award for the best smile, or whether Celestina Warbeck’s new single was any good. Sometimes, however, they'd gossip about their friends and acquaintances. For example, what they thought of Blaise’s new step-dad, or Nott’s new girlfriend. He hadn’t read the magazine since he was fifteen, but Teddi was hooked. He wasn’t entirely sure why, but she was a teenage girl; he wouldn’t begrudge her a magazine if that’s what it would take for her to be happy. Merlin, he’d buy her a pony, or six, if that’s what she wanted.

Ducking into Flourish and Blotts, Teddi now lead as she stalked over to the magazine and newspapers section. Draco grabbed a copy of The Daily Prophet, wondering what the article had come out like. Front page, obviously. They always were when Harry and his family were involved, and these days, Draco was practically family. The headline read “New Auror Department Opens Monday!” and there was a picture underneath of Harry and Draco standing side by side, Harry in a navy suit, whilst his partner was in a grey one. Over the last few years, suits had become much more popular in the Wizarding World, as they were generally more practical than traditional wizard robes. Most women and gay men were all quite happy about this development, agreeing on the fact that a well cut suit allowed for a bit more ogling.

Draco scanned over the article. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Department name, a small overview of what they were set to do, a couple of the names of the people involved. That was about it, really, except Skeeter’s scathing comments into Draco’s past or Harry’s future.

Anyway, putting the magazine down, Draco turned to Teddi, waiting for her to finish selecting the collection of trashy erotica and magazines she wanted this week. Once done, he paid, picking up a couple of bags of Bertie Botts at the counter; those impulse buys were always bad for his bank account.

Another ten minutes passed, and Draco found himself sitting in his usual booth at Fortescue’s with Teddi sitting opposite him. Teddi opened her magazine, and for the first time, he noticed the front cover. That bitch! Rita had always been sly, but this was awful. He had no clue that she also worked for Witch Weekly now, but apparently she did, or he wouldn’t be on the front cover, with Harry’s arm wrapped around Draco’s waist while Draco was straightening Harry’s tie.

Glancing at the words briefly, Draco said, “Teddi, flip to page five.”

Compared with The Daily Prophet’s article, that version had been professional, writing about the new Department and a few of the people who would be joining the department that were not doing any undercover work. It had also been revealed that two of the most famous wizard recluses- Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler- would be joining the Department as well as a muggle or two. There was shock in the words, but no judgements or biases. This however, was a different story.

“You and Harry look like such a cute couple.” Teddi teased with a grin, winking at Draco. “It’s so obvious. Like, you should totes go for it. It’s not like he’d ever turn you down, he’d just too embarrassed to say something himself.”

Draco chuckled at how simple his young cousin made it sound. “That’s not quite how life works, I’m afraid, sweetheart.” He muttered. For one, Harry was straight. Secondly, sure, they might be friends, but Draco knew that a man like Harry was stationed far above himself.

**"Boy Who Lived, Or Boy Who Loved?**

_Child Saviour, Tri-Wizard Champion, Defeater of the Dark Lord and the Head of the new Department of n the Auror Corps, Harry Potter has been the most eligible bachelor in the wizarding world for the last fifteen years. Rumour has had it that he has been living with former Death Eater, Draco Malfoy over the last few years, since they became Auror Partners, and today that theory was confirmed. The two were interviewed in their home yesterday to tell us more about what this new department will do, but they only had eyes for each other. Any journalist would be able to see that there is clearly something going on, but just what and for how long is questionable. Malfoy has often been spotted with his childhood sweetheart, Pansy Parkinson, at functions, and Harry often with his sixteen year old god-daughter, Teddi Lupin or with the other two members of the Golden Trio when dates are required. Potter and Malfoy revealed that they have been living with each other part time for a long time, and they co-raised both Teddi Lupin and Malfoy’s son, Scorpius Malfoy, although they both denied the romantic connotations that often come along with that. They simply replied that they were close friends and nothing more."_ Teddi began to read out loud.

 And that was just the beginning of it.

~…~

Harry woke with a start. Bed sheets tangled around his legs, sweat dripping down his chest, he squirmed uncomfortably for a few moments with heavy, laboured breaths, before he finally opened his eyes. Recently, Harry had been having worse and worse headaches. He wasn’t quite sure what had caused this problem, but he assumed it was to do with the little sleep he was getting, seeing as he had night terrors every time he slept. Every night, he’d either wake himself, or wake Draco, with screaming and thrashing. If his screaming didn’t wake him up, Draco would make sure to shake him awake with soft hands and soft words. A terrible pain often accompanied it, up in his scar. For the first few years of the war, all of the tension from the lightning bolt had been drained, but passed that, it built and built, like a horrid pressure compressing his brain to mush.

Bright lights- red and green spun together, twining and twisting as they sparked and flamed. The Dead were watching: his parents, Sirius, Remus, Tonks, Fred, Albus, Cedric, Colin, even Hedwig flying over above. Voldemort was laughing, Bellatrix cackling, Draco crying.

Draco was sitting on the bed next to him, pressing a cold flannel to his forehead. “You alright there, Harry?” He asked, eyebrows creasing in concern.

Harry nodded. “I wish I knew why they’ve come back…”

~…~

Grasping the gun tightly, John took a deep breath. All he had to do was pull the trigger.

He wasn't living anymore. It hardly mattered, really. Right? If the afterlife was real, he could be with Sherlock, and if it wasn’t, at least he’d be put out of his misery. All he had to do was squeeze the trigger.

His fingers were trembling as he gasped out small breaths around the barrel of the gun, his military cemetery teeth digging into the metal. He squeezed his eyes tightly closed, feeling them dampen as his eyelashes clumped together, wet with the glaze that blurred his vision. Three, Two…

A deep, smooth voice like honey penetrated his thoughts. “John.”


	4. Chapter 4

Narcissa Malfoy adored her grandson almost as much as she adored her actual son. She had always wanted a second child, and after the end of the war, she had a huge gaping hole in her chest. Her husband had been carted away to Azkaban and only narrowly avoided the Kiss. She knew she would never be one of those women who had a second child once the first was grown up, so they could both have her full attention when they were young. 

Draco had also left her, although not before making sure that all of her needs were met. The Malfoy name was disgraced, and whilst she had briefly considered reverting to her name before marriage, she knew it was something that was simply not done. She still loved Lucius, and would not remarry, even if he had a very long sentence. Besides, it wasn’t like changing her name would change her status. Everyone would still know who she was. It wouldn’t mean that her old friends were going to accept her. It wasn’t that she didn’t have friends now, because that wasn’t the case at all. She had Lady Greengrass, Ms Nott, Miss Zabini and Lady Parkinson. She had her sister, Andromeda, who often came and looked after Scorpius with her, or brought Theodora, her granddaughter for tea. 

In truth, Narcissa saw Theodora in equal lighting to her grandson, even though she was technically her great aunt. After all, her son had helped raise Theodora as much as he had raised his own son. And she’d always wanted a girl. It was a secret to everyone except her son himself, but when he was younger she’d spelled his hair long and braided it, and designed pretty dresses using him as a model. She’d stopped when he was around nine or ten, but Narcissa had kept a small photography album of him dressed like it. He’d been adorable. 

So naturally, learning that she had a granddaughter (or near enough) had been a thrill. Theodora had come to the Manor one day during the Yule break of her second year, accompanied by both of her fathers, and sat down to tea with her hands trembling. Narcissa had shooed the young men away and sat with Teddi as she cried and admitted that she was a girl. Narcissa had been fairly confused at first, but then Teddi explained to her all about how she’d been doing an essay for Cultural Studies (which was a replacement for Muggle Studies, delving into both Muggle, Magical and Pureblood cultures, and compulsory until third year, when it became an elective) about the internet, and had been flicking through some sort of encyclopaedia site.. Woko… Wiki… Something. She was bored, so naturally, she shuffled through pages, reading about whatever fitted her fancy. A page on LGBT rights came up, and apparently, she’d felt like she fit for the first time she could remember. She’d explained to Narcissa, and they’d both ended up in tears. Narcissa was crying for the pain her niece had been in that she should have noticed, she was crying because she was so ecstatic that Teddi could be herself. She was crying because she had gained a granddaughter. 

Lucius hadn’t been so happy with the development. When Narcissa visited him a couple of days later and explained what had happened, he’d refused to understand. He was so old fashioned, Narcissa often thought. 

Still, Narcissa cared little for that. She often took Theodora out with herself, Meda, and her son’s best female friend, Pansy Parkinson. Whether that was for Sunday tea, shopping in Paris or Wine Tasting sessions across the globe. Even if Theodora was underage, anyone would do anything for Harry Potter’s daughter, and in the Muggle world, she could simply use her metamorphmagi skills to appear ten years older. 

Still, Theodora was at Hogwarts most days, but Scorpius was here. The five year old little angel was almost a perfect replica of her son, although he had much nicer bone structure than her son had had when he was younger. The one thing he had inherited from his mother, it seemed. Instead of pointed and sharp, all awkward bones and too long limbs, like Draco had been even at this age, he was soft and cuddly, like a proper little boy should be. It probably helped that Kreacher would not say no to whatever foods he could actually say, and then proceed to feed him them. Luckily, Scorpius had a difficult time pronouncing the names of most sweets, and the house elf most often brought him soft fruits, cheese or cold meats. However, when Narcissa was babysitting, which was once or twice during the week for at least a few hours a time, she stuck to the rule that he could only asks for snacks when he could make the request in understandable French. 

Therefore it was no surprise when the blonde boy came running in, almost knocking over a priceless vase yelling, “Gâteau! Je veux un peu de gâteau!” as he came. Narcissa called for one of her house elves, Nimsy, who apparated in and then out again, only to come back with a slice of cake on a plate a few moments later. 

Draco and Pansy would be here any moment to collect the boy, so she sat him at the table and told him to eat neatly. It would’t do for the pair to come in to Scorpius covered in jam and icing, after all. They thought she was a strict grandmother, not a weak old woman who’s heart melted whenever her grandson looked at her with his big grey eyes. 

~…~

The first thing Sherlock had done when he had been let out of his brother’s care and left Grimmauld Place, was to venture to a small hotel, pay for three nights use and internet. He spent the time online, catching up on the worlds- both muggle and wizard. He discovered the #IBeliveInSherlockHolmes, #RichBrookIsAFake and #MoriartyIsReal threads on Twitter after logging into John’s account. The last post was two years ago, and it looked like the account hadn’t been used since. Yet, he still had hundreds of thousands of followers… Curious. 

He tweeted one single thing before logging off again and going to bed. 

#SherlockLives.

~…~

Harry spent the morning trying to navigate London. First he’d ended up in Dartford, then Croydon. Romford, Harrow and Wembley were soon to follow. After an hour or so, he’d eventually apparated to the right place. Brushing off his jeans, he left the broom cupboard he’d ended up in, pushing down memories of cupboards which still haunted him some nights. Despite what many would think, he liked cupboards. When he used to have frequent panic attacks, he’d wriggle his way into one and stay there until he calmed down. They’d never hurt him when he was in the cupboard. Vernon and Dudley hadn’t fit to be able to, an Petunia had never particularly abused him, rather just neglected him. 

Wandering the halls, Harry searched for the sign that would lead him to the morgue. According to what the records said, Miss Molly Hooper worked there. He wondered if she liked it much, if she liked it so much that she wouldn’t leave. Not even for a big pay raise and more interesting dead bodies. 

He quickly cast a notice-me-not charm and walked through doors as others did, making sure he wasn’t felt. Soon enough he stood outside the department, and when the corridor was bare, he ended the charm and pulled the door open, asking around until he found someone who could locate Molly Hooper. Apparently she had an office now. He didn’t know that she had’t had one in the first place, considering he hadn’t seen her since they left Hogwarts, but the employee made it sound like a recent development, and he was quickly directed to the room. According to the sign on the door, she was currently on a coffee break. The woman who was nattering away to Harry told him that he could wait outside and soon left. As soon as he was alone again, he let himself in. 

Harry wondered if Miss Hooper would still find him so impressive once she’d had a real conversation with him. He remembered back in his Eighth year that there had been a Harry Potter Fan Club, led by one Molly Hooper. There had been quite a lot of members, surprisingly, and not all awkward teenage girls, who Teddi would have labelled ‘fangirls’ if she’d been around to see it. They’d often entered articles for the school newspaper that Hermione ran, founded in memory of Colin Creevey. Luckily Hermione was able to overview everything before it was printed, so the articles were shot down unless they were accurate, as Headmistress McGonagall had said that at least some of their articles had to be printed, as it was unfair to discard all of their hard work, especially as many of the members were younger and needed encouragement after the war. 

Ginny Weasley had joined, and that’s when Harry knew their relationship was over. 

Anyway, Harry sat down on the sofa that was pressed against the wall, opposite the desk, waiting for the woman to arrive. Molly had been on the list that Sherlock had provided with the day prior, along with 

It didn't take long for a small but pretty girl to bustle in, papers piled up in her arms, hair pulled messily back into a ponytail, half of it falling out of the tie she’d used to secure it. In other words, she looked rushed. 

Her jaw dropped and the papers went flying everywhere when she saw him. 

“H-Harry Potter!” 

Harry stood and gathered up her papers which were now all over the floor. 

“Oh, um, thank you! What can I do for you, Auror Potter?” Miss Hooper asked, taking the papers from him and stacking them carefully on her desk before pulling her hair tie out and recollecting the hair to properly secure it this time.

“Please, Miss Hooper, it’s Harry,” he told her, “And I’ve come to offer you a job.” 

~…~

For the one year that Sherlock Holmes attended Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft and Wizardry in 1999, and all of the years after that, he was lonely.

~…~

Draco had to practically drag Teddi to his study in the Manor, where the nearest floo connection was, on Saturday evening after he’d spent the day with her in Diagon Alley. Scorpius had been upset because he’d missed his Papa and Harry, as Harry was also out, and Narcissa had offered to look after the young boy yet again, as Andromeda had him for most of the next week. The two older women, along with Molly Weasley, usually took care of him. Narcissa had the huge estate and taught him basic skills and tried to nurture his education, whilst Andromeda played with him and let him do slightly more dangerous things, like play with her wand or have a go on his toy broom, under her supervision of course. Molly Weasley usually looked after her youngest grandchildren whilst their parents were at work anyway, and one more was hardly difficult. Scorpius liked all three homes, Grandmother's because he learned so much, Auntie Andy’s because she always had toys , and the Burrow because he loved playing with his best friend, Hugo, who was the same age as he was.

Teddi was rather irritating Draco for once. Normally she saw him as the ‘cool dad’ even if she never referred to him like that, instead pretending to see him as some kind of gay uncle, and he saw her in the very same way. Draco had almost brought the subject up a few times, but he could never find the right time exactly. Still, this afternoon, once they’d returned to the Manor and had sat with Narcissa and Scorpius for a while, she would not stop going on about the Tri Wizard Tournament. Apparently, she was old enough to enter, and was extremely excited. 

No one had ever told her what had happened when Harry and Draco were at school. No one had explained to her that it was, in fact, a very bad idea for her to enter her name, even if she wanted to step out of the shadow of her famous caretakers, and get eternal glory for herself. And of course, that one special person that she’d had her eye on for a little while now. No one had told her that she shouldn’t enter her name until today. Too late. Oops.

~…~

Harry’s nightmares were only getting worse as time moved on, time where he was not sleeping in his own familiar room, since it was being redecorated. There was no Teddi to talk to- she’d be asleep- and he knew that Draco was at the Manor. Draco lived part time at the Manor, part time at Number 12. Scorpius mostly stayed at the Manor, but they were both moving in full time once the renovations were complete. Harry tossed and turned, before falling into an unrestful sleep.

~…~

John jumped, finger almost accidentally squeezing the trigger as he heard his name. That didn’t sound like all of his hallucinations so far. Could it be…? Could this be…? 

“Put it down, John.”

John dropped the gun. 

_Sherlock._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Sorry this chapter is a bit of a filler. Comments and kudos appreciated greatly! :)
> 
> The next chapter will have Snape, an argument, Sherlock's uni days, Hermione and Harry digging into the past and some important news!


	5. Chapter 5

Severus Snape liked to keep himself to himself. Now that the war was over, he ducked out of the wizarding world, allowing everyone to believe that he had died when Nagini had bitten him. Everyone that had ever mattered to him was dead, now, so it was of little consequence, anyway. His mother died when he was a boy. Lily died when he was a young man. His mentor and closest companion had died by his forced hand in the final years before the end of the war. All three occasions were his own fault. Severus Snape knew that whatever he touched crumbled at his fingertips. Whilst that may have been helpful if he could have reduced the Dark Lord to ash in his palm, it was not helpful in his life now. 

Instead of living like a regular person, he kept to himself, living in a cottage which sat on a cliff in the south of England, he brewed. He’d set up a company with the help of the only person who knew he was still alive, in a false name. He sold potions across the world, and anyone who knew anything about potions knew his brand. Sometimes he wondered what would have come to him, had he decided to live as a normal man. Perhaps he would have settled down with a nice witch or wizard, or two. He’d always leaned slightly to polyamory, considering he felt he alone could not provide the appropriate affections someone might need, as he was a very closed off individual. However, he knew that in this world, he could never do that. To be vulnerable to not only one person, but two? No, he couldn’t. 

Occasionally, he wanted to go out in public, but he wanted little attention. That was when he decided to put his transfiguration skills to use. It took some time, but eventually he had transformed. Oh, how his students would have laughed if they knew it was him, flying around Diagon Alley a couple of times a month. They’d always called him a dungeon bat. He never suspected they might have been right. 

The bat’s sensitive ears tweaked as he heard a rapping at the window. He’d just arrived home to the cottage he had named New Spinners End (old habits die hard) and had been about to transform back to his human self. He flew to the window, to see an owl. Thankfully, it was his past mentee’s owl. The owl of the only person he still spoke with. He quickly transformed back, and leaned over the sink to open the window latch. He pushed it up, sleeve falling down to remind him of the poor decisions he had made as a boy. The eagle owl flew in, flapping around a few times before settling once Severus had retrieved an owl treat from a basket that hung on the shelf for that very purpose. He had a lot of owls fly in and out, despite not speaking to others. They were business only, with lettered requests or potions in unbreakable vials going back and forth between his customers and colleagues. 

The owl extended a leg now he was appeased, so Severus could unattach the letter which dripped with a green and silver seal. The clatter of knives rang in his ears as he pulled one from the drawer, then sliced the seal open. He sat at the table to read.

_Dearest Friend,_

_It may or may not have come to your attention, depending on whether or not you have been reading what the media says, that Harry and I have been offered a new job. It may or may not have come to your attention that this means we can hire whoever we want. We want you. Yes, I told him of you, but do not worry, he has told no one. However, we believe that you should. You have been alone for far too long, and it is time you face the world again. We would appreciate your expertise in not only Potions, but also your technique and vast knowledge on the Dark Arts and defence against them. We can pay you well and give many bonuses if you chose to work with us, such as positive but not overwhelming media coverage on your reintroduction to the Wizarding World, a new set of the best wards currently available and the chance to work with others like you. You may remember my past associate, Holmes, whom you got along with rather well. He has agreed to work with us. Also, I have been granted a warrant and grant for any expensive or unsavoury Potions ingredients you may need to brew or develop potions. Please reply by Saturday morning so we will know whether to expect you or not. If you decide that you want to take part in this venture, please meet Harry and me at the old Headquarters of the Order at seven am on Monday morning._

_Yours,  
DM_

Severus sighed. What in the devil was he going to do about this? 

~…~

“John… How could you do this?” Sherlock asked, voice dropping dangerously low.

John got to his feet and staggered forwards, towards the taller man, wanting to grasp him, hold him, make sure he was real. Make sure he could never leave again. Finally, his hand was colliding with Sherlock’s chest, fingers brushing over the soft fabric of his shirt, clenching in a fist, holding the material tight, before he broke down sobbing. John fell to his knees, and Sherlock crouched down, pulling John in close. Although it was awkward, and felt unfamiliar, as it was not something he had done in a long time, it also felt _right._

“You-you’re here. You’re re-really here,” John stuttered through his tears. Before Sherlock, he had never been so emotional. Maybe angry or frustrated, but not like this. John Watson did not cry before Sherlock Holmes, but like everything else, when it came to Sherlock, the rules changed. John didn’t think about the fact that Sherlock was supposed to be dead, in fact, it never even occurred to him, sitting on the hardwood floor like this, the cramp in his lower leg gone for once. 

“Yes, John. I’m here,” he replied, taking the other man’s chin with his fingers, tilting his head to stare him in the eye. “You have to promise me that you’ll never do anything like this again, okay?” 

“Why, are you leaving again?” the man asked. He sounded oddly childish, like the facade of his adulthood had fallen now that his most basic instinct, that for survival, was gone. 

“I don’t plan on it.”

Later, Sherlock sat in his chair, violin across his lap as he plucked strings slowly, thinking. John’s almost suicide triggered something in him, from a previous life, a previous age. He’d almost died plenty of times in his life, but not very many times on purpose. Of course, there were dangers with his job, and these past couple of years had taken that to the extreme. However, even when he was young, it had always been in the back of his mind. Carl Powers had started that in him, the notion that death could spring whenever it wanted. Evidenced by this was a thirteen year old Sherlock who believed he could drive a car, even though he’d never so much as sat in one before. Luckily, his accidental magic had saved him, even if he was a bit old to rely on it. Then again, in his university days, he’d almost died several times from too close to overdoses, or the things people had done to him in exchange for money, drugs, shelter, food. Affection. Human starved, Sherlock took whatever he could get. There had also been that January, after his association with the Malfoys ended, where his brain would not stop, an infinite train racing ever forward, sometimes tracking backwards to his worst night, on Christmas of 2001. That had been the most miserable day of his life to date. Not even the homelessness, or his experiences with Victor Trevor were worse. Still. He didn’t like to think about those days anymore, even if he couldn’t help it. 

~…~

The Library had always been Hermione’s favourite place. Saturday morning had her sitting with a cup of coffee and a blanket, under a shelf, surrounded by piles of newspapers, surprisingly, as well as a few books on family history. Harry sat not far from her, with his wizard-friendly tablet on his knees, searching Weasley’s Wide Web (which was arguably George Weasley’s finest invention), looking through pages of information. Hermione was confused at first when Harry had asked her to help him research how homosexual relationships were perceived in the wizard community, as well as Draco Malfoy’s past. 

“Ah, I think I’ve found something!” Hermione whispered loudly, worrying at her lip as she skimmed the article, headlined, **Malfoy and Holmes Breakup!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Alan Rickman, for your amazing work and inspiration. You will be missed. 
> 
> Please give kudos, comment and subscribe, it means a lot :)
> 
> In the next chapter, the Hogwarts Champion is revealed, John realises that Irene may not be as dead as he thought, and Sherlock realises that his so called death affected John more than he thought.


End file.
